Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

‘Why?’

The shelves were full of ornaments too. Dragons, and skeletons, and ankhs, and incense burners, and trolls. The tackier the better, as far as Samantha was concerned. As long as it was a bit gothic, she loved it. Logan reached out and picked a snowglobe off the windowsill. It was a replica of the graveyard in The Frighteners — mounted on a genuine chunk of New Zealand rock — where the snow was made from tiny skull-and-crossbones. He gave it a shake, making the crypt doors open and pale hands reach out. She’d been so chuffed when he’d bought it for her. Gave it pride of place on the mantelpiece, until she’d found that replica Jason Voorhees hockey mask on eBay.

He dumped the original black-and-white version of The Haunting in with the other videos.

OK, if Harper didn’t say anything in the next ten seconds he was hanging up. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six—

‘ I’ve been following your career for years. The Mastrick Monster, the Flesher, Jenny and Alison McGregor, Richard Knox... It’s been very colourful.’

‘You still haven’t answered the question.’

‘ All these dramatic high-profile cases; anyone would think you’d be a superintendent by now, chief inspector at the very least. Instead, you’re wearing sergeant’s stripes in some God-forsaken Aberdeenshire backwater. ’

His chin came up. ‘Maybe I like being a sergeant. Maybe I like Banff. Maybe I don’t want to be a glorified administrator, slash, project-manager, slash, HR stooge? Running investigations at arm’s length and never actually doing anything.’

She laughed at him, then sighed. ‘ When are you back at work? ’

Logan put the snowglobe down. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘ Good. ’ She hung up.

God save us.

He huffed out a breath. Then went back to the videos.

‘No, no idea. Hold on.’ Logan rested the box on top of the Punto, and opened the boot — keeping the phone pinned between his ear and shoulder. He slid the box of clothes in on top of one marked ‘O RNAMENTS ’.

With the passenger seat as far forward as it would go, and the back seats folded down there was probably room for another two boxes.

Call it one and a half loads to the charity shop, one to the tip... ‘Maybe three o’clock? Four? Depends on the traffic.’

From where he stood there was a great view of the tailback grinding up to the Mugiemoss Roundabout. The snow might have stopped, but everyone was still driving like they’d forgotten their Zimmer frame.

Steel’s voice got all muffled. ‘ He’s saying about four-ish... What?... OK. ’ Then she was back at full volume again. ‘ Susan says it’s roast chicken and dumplings. ’

‘Look, I can’t promise anything, I’ve still got all this—’

‘ No excuses. You’re seeing your kids whether you like it or no’. ’

He clunked the boot shut. ‘If I turn up and the pair of you sneak off to the cinema, I will not be happy.’

‘ Oh come on, we only did that one time. ’

‘One time? What about when you disappeared to Edinburgh for the night? Or when you went to see Rigoletto ? Or Cats ? You invited me round for a barbecue then tiptoed away to see Bill Bailey at the Music Hall, remember that?’ He stamped back into the caravan.

‘ Well, maybe no’ one time, but— ’

‘I am not your unpaid emergency babysitter.’ He grabbed another box of clothes.

‘ Come on Laz, don’t be a big whinge. Going to be a lovely evening — good food, family. Do you the world of good. Might even have a knees-up round the old piano, so Jasmine— ’

‘OK, I’m hanging up now.’

‘ You’re such a— ’

He hung up, braced the box against the doorframe, and stuck the phone in his pocket.

Honestly, the woman was a nightmare.

The box of clothes snagged on the lip of the boot, but he put his shoulder to it and forced it past the black rubber strip. One more box to go.

Mind you, it might be nice to see the kids again. Make sure they were OK. And Susan did cook a damn tasty roast chicken.

Yeah, why not.

Even having to put up with Jasmine practising for her grade three piano might not be so bad. At least it’d be more than wonky scales and tortured nursery rhymes this time.

He closed the car boot and headed back inside.

That CLAN charity shop in Dyce was probably the best bet — cut along the back way, past where the paper mill used to be, across the road, under the dual carriage way and through the housing estate. At least that way...

Logan froze.

A noise came from the open doorway to the living room. Like something had fallen over.

But it was all in boxes. There was nothing left to fall over.

He stepped through into the room.

A blur in the corner of his eye, then someone slammed into Logan’s side. They crashed into the caravan wall and bounced. Then banged against the wall again.

A thick hand grabbed at Logan’s face, grinding it into the wallpaper as a fist battered into his ribs. Once. Twice. Three times.

Then the room flipped — ceiling, carpet, then ceiling again.

Logan smashed onto the floor.

Lay there, flat on his back, struggling to haul in a breath. Fire ripped up and down his side where the punches landed.

Argh...

A weight landed on his chest, cutting short the jagged breathing, and when he opened his eyes there was a man sitting on him — knees pinning Logan’s arms to his sides. A wee man, with big blonde sideburns and a wide greasy smile. Captain ABBA, AKA: Eddy Knowles.

‘Not so big now, are you?’ Eddy’s fist jabbed forward, cracking into Logan’s cheek, bashing his head off the carpet. Another.

Logan thrashed, legs kicking out. ‘GET OFF ME!’

The next punch brought searing yellow blobs and a high-pitched whine riding on a wave of frozen barbed wire.

‘GET OFF, YOU WEE—’ Logan’s head snapped hard to the left, lips burning. Hot copper and salt seeped across his tongue.

Eddy Knowles sat back, reached behind him, and pulled out an eight-inch hunting knife. ‘Remember this?’ He held it in front of Logan’s eyes, twisting it so the blade caught the light. ‘Jonesy and Al say, “Hi,” by the way.’

A knife. Why did it have to be a knife?

Knots twisted in Logan’s stomach as the scar-lines cried out in protest.

‘Gnnnt ffffmmm...’ Mouth wasn’t working. Everything tasted of blood.

The knife traced its way down Logan’s cheek, cold and scratching — not deep enough to break the skin.

‘Shame it had to turn out like this. But, well, you know what Reuben’s like when he gets an idea in his head.’

‘Gnnnnnfffffmmmm...’

Captain ABBA swam in and out of focus.

DON’T JUST LIE THERE, DO SOMETHING!

What?

What the hell was he supposed to do?

‘Was only a warning last night. A wee something to show you who’s boss. But Reuben’s changed his mind again.’ He leaned forward. ‘Nothing personal, but I got to make an example of you.’ Eddy placed the knife against the skin under Logan’s eye. ‘You understand.’

‘Fffffk yyyu.’

‘Yeah, not so much.’ The knife rose into the air, point down.

Logan grabbed two handfuls of Captain ABBA’s buttocks and heaved, digging in with his heels, thrusting his hips upwards in a desperate parody of a sexual act. Trying to not get screwed.

Eddy’s eyes went wide as he lurched forwards, caught off balance, sprawling on top of him.

Logan shoved him off, grabbed the back of his neck and battered his head into the carpet.

The knife went clattering away across the floor, under the couch.